Words fail me when I try to explain this ache.
So I write it. Like I always have—like I would anyway.

I write about this hollow, gnawing thing inside me—quiet, patient, devouring.
Was this ever the life I imagined?
Or did I take a wrong turn so long ago that I no longer remember who I was before?

I am lost, in a world that spins too fast and cares too little.
Everything rushes past, and I can’t keep up.
I reach for something—anything—to hold onto.

They promised happiness.
But it never stays.
It flickers. It fades.
And I’m always bracing for the moment it’s ripped away.

I work until there’s nothing left of me.
Until I collapse under the weight of needing to matter.
To be something.
To leave proof that I was ever here.

Because I feel time pressing in.
I’m young, they say.
But I feel the end breathing on my skin.
It claws at my chest.
Knocks at the door.
Gnaws at my bones while I scream into a silence so deep it swallows my voice whole.

I scream into pillows until I go hoarse.
Cry silently in showers that have seen me break.
Shout it into the net, trying to find comfort in strangers I’ll never meet.

Who am I?
I don’t know.
I’ve fought for that answer, bruised myself against it—and I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I’m okay.
Tired of smiling like the night doesn’t eat me alive.

Everything I tried to bury has come back to find me.
And it knows where I live.

Still, I stand. But I am lost.
Still, I breathe. But I ache.
Still, I move. But I feel nothing.

If this—this emptiness—is what I’ve become,
then let whoever’s watching from above drag me forward.
Not back. Never back.
Just… toward something.
Toward whoever I’m meant to be—
if anything is left of me to become.

Escrito el 24 de junio de 2025